Once Upon a Nightmare
by Hawthorn7
Summary: Jonathan Crane, AKA Scarecrow, cooks up a new plot to conquer the city of Gotham and give the bat a run for his money. Comic version, not movie.
1. Speeding

AUTHORS NOTES: This is the comic version of Scarecrow, not the movie. The movie stunk. Jonathan Crane is a wimpy-lookin' red-head with poor eyesight and gets off to reading Nietzche. And I apologize for any spelling errors. I don't have MS Word. 

Do not assume you know where this is going. Seriously.

I don't own anyone but Lorna, blah-dee-blah. Disclaimer! DC.  
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FROM THE P.O.V. OF JONATHAN CRANE

I have already slaughtered perhaps four or five people since I have left the asylum grounds, as well as commited grand theft auto, and probably plenty of other things that don't even register as illegal to me anymore, and what do I get caught for? Speeding.

It was night. Everything happens at night. The moon was a sliver, like God's toe-nail, peaking through passing cloud vapors, colorfully polluted over the Gotham City skyline. I was on the outskirts of town, heading towards a more residential area because I was looking for new houses with enough shelter to be able to sleep. The roads were bare, which was most likely the reason for my urge to press down on the gas petal. It was that time of night when the streetlights are flashing. I must not have been paying attention, drifting off into my world of thoughts which I did often. However, I was paying attention enough to see the flash of blue and red against my rear-view mirror and all along the dashboard of this junky pick-up truck I was riding in.

I was silent while I allowed a slue of profanity to drag across my mind tiredly. My hand hit the shaft in the center of the console once I pulled to the side, parking the dung-heap-on-wheels. I do believe the back bumper fell off directly after haulting. No, it would be absurd to attempt to make a break for it. The vehicle I was in could not out-run a squad car. I would have to think of something else, though, due to my fatigue and apathy, I was sure to be sloppy. I was.

"Lisence and registration," said the voice on the other side of my door. It was a woman's voice, and I looked up to see her face. Her muddy brown hair was pulled back and her face possessed a generic quality, a mix of ethnicity like many natives to the city. A mutt. Her eyes were green and I could see them very well. Perhaps it was because they were reflection the headlights of the squad car behind me.

Thankfully, I looked like your average Joe. I even gave off a suberban fatherly feel what with a sweatervest and kakhi pants on, glasses sitting on the bridge of my nose. My hair was growing back after the asylum gave me the standard buzz-job upon the last admittance. It was of a natural reddish-brown, straight... thin... two to three inches long and parted to the side... On me, though, I had neither lisence nor registration because I was only a day out of the looney-bin and had stolen the vehicle. So, I told her I was sorry, and that I could not provied her with her request. She instructed me to step out of the truck. I did. I towered over her, of course, even if I was slouching.

"I need your name and address," she said as she took out a ticket book and pen, swaying her weight onto her other foot. Now out of the car, I could get a good look at her, and did so without shame.

"Jonathan Crane," I told her, "and am currently homeless."

She froze as if someone had hit the 'pause' button on her life. She looked up, then turned to look at me, and examined me much the way I had done her. I think she understod her mistake. But! Like a good cop, she placed her hand on the gun at her side and carefully withdrew it, not yet aiming it at me.

"Oh! No, no! You have it all wrong!" I raised a hand to her, waving her off. "I've been released. I assure you, I'm harmless."

"Either way, I'm going to have to write you a ticket, and seeing as how you can't provide me registration, I'll have to assume you stole the vehicle." I saw the gun rise a little towards me. She was trying to put on a brave show, but she couldn't hide it from me. Me. She was scared...

"And you will assume correct," I took a step forward. She took one step back. "But I will not harm you, so please lower your weapon."

"No. I'm now going to arrest you. Do you understand?" The lady-cop set the ticket book on the hood to the vehicle and then withdrew a pair of handcuffs.

Oh yes, I understood, and I couldn't let that happen, so I gave her a face full of fear gas! Oh, come on! Do you think I would go anywhere without it? Naivity on your part.

She, in turn, fired a shot in my direction which just hit my upper arm. A single inch to the left and it would have missed completely, but instead it grazed me enough to cut a good hunk out of my bicep. Within moments, I had my revenge as she huddled against the tire of the truck, hugging her knees tightly with her eyes shut tight. No scream. How dissapointing.

The sleeve of the shirt I was wearing soaked up the blood, staining it. Beneath the material, I could feel it trickle down until it rounded my fingertips and dripped down onto the asphault. So much blood. I needed medical attention. First aid, at the least, possibly stitches. I would have to examine the wound.

I made my way to the patrol car, seeing as how I would be less likely to be questioned, not to mention my destination lie only a mile ro two away. As I opened the door, I had to stop. My vision blurred and betrayed me, which I took to mean I needed sleep, and I began to feel uncomfortably tipsy. I would just have to shake it off and keep going, so I stepped into the car ...and couldn't help but rest my head on the wheel for a moment. Well, it felt so good that I just didn't get back up.

-----

FROM THE P.O.V. OF LORNA MILES

I live in a small apartment. Two rooms: one which acts as a living room/kitchen/bedroom, and a bathroom with a really crappy shower in a building with crappy water pressure. It's got only one window along the far wall, which looks out over the street.

I don't sleep at night. Can't. Instead I take many naps during the day. I like the night much better because everything happens at night. It's when I can open my eyes without squinting, and there's always that heavy moisture when morning approached that smells like Heaven should.

My television was on, but I wasn't paying attention. I had seen police lights right outside my window, so I stood by and watched as a tall man stepped out of some shit-mobile and gassed the policewoman with some green stuff. I knew what it was, and in knowing that, I knew who HE was. Everyone knew, at least everyone who read the paper. I watched him get shot and crawl into the cop car, but then he stopped moving.

I've always been a spontainious and impulsive person. It's dangerous, but it gives life a bold flavor and I'm never bored. That's how I like it. So, I risked being charged for aiding a criminal when I dashed down to the street to help.

He was just sitting there in the car. Looked dead. A wet rag, long skinny arms dangling down at his sides. He looked like he should get him picture in the dictionary right next to 'nerd'.

I knew he was armed, so I had to be very careful. Some would call me stupid. I might have to agree. People do stupid things in the wee hours of tha mornin.

"Hi there," I said as soothingly as I could. "I only want to help you, kay? I'm going to take you to my apartment just there across the street, and I'm going to help fix your arm. Please. Don't. Gas me."

The body took on life. He opened his eyes just enough to glance over at me. He looked annoyed. "I don't need your help. Go away before I kill you."

Well, he didn't say he was going to gas me. Just kill me. Hm. It has also been my experience that some people won't accept help unless you force it on them. God, I'm stupid.

I was extremely careful when I put my hand on his shoulder. He just stared at me like a stalker-guy would through my bedroom window. This guy floated in an aura of creepiness. None-the-less, moron that I am, I pulled him out of the car (he helped... a little), wrapped his good arm around my neck, and we took twice as long getting back than I did coming down. But we got to the apartment at last, and I let him collapse and get blood all over my bed which was only a matress with blankets shoved in the corner.

"I will kill you," he told me, still just staring.

"I believe you," I told him.

"Then why are you helping me? Do you think it's 'cool' to befriend an arch-criminal?"

I blinked. "...A little. But that's not why I'm helping you."

I sat back on my heels with my knees digging into the egde of the matress. The scissors were nearby, the handle of which was stained with paint and wax (scissors were always nearby). I began to cut up the length of his sleeve, peeling back the sticky, bloody material. What wasn't red was pasty white. I got to his shoulder and stopped when I was able to see the wound. It was still freely bleeding. I left him to zip to the kitchen to get medical supplied and zipped back. I had the option of using alcohal, but because that would hurt like a bitch, I just pretty much emptied half a tube of Neosporin on him after cleaning it up gently.

"Whatever," he said and closed his eyes. He was putting off a bad attitude, but he looked content enough to please me. What a fun turn of events.

I placed a patch of gause over the wound and pressed down. His eyes flared open and I could see his body tence in pain. "Be careful, would you! A little less medieval!"

I returned his comment with a smile ...and pushed down harder, "It stops the bleeding, you big baby. You should thank me for not using the alcohal."

He hissed, taking in a sharp breath. "I'll thank you when I think you've deserved it," he snapped and turned his head away from me. "And stop trying to be cute unless you want me puking all over your wall."

I frowned. What did I expect? Him to be nice?

Once I began to wrap his upper arm in bandage, a silence flooded to room between us. Off to the side, my television was still on, playing some recorded infomercial, but it might as well be off because no one was paying attention. I mildly noted how he raised his arm a little bit to make it easier for me.

"What's your name?" he asked, breaking the silence that had gone on for about a minute.

I glanced down at him. His head was turned towards me again.

"Lorna," I told him.

He nodded lightly, and when I released his arm, he shifted on the matress, "Are you done?"

"Yes, but you don't have to leave. I'll let you sleep on the bed."

Crane continued to watch me in that creepy stalker way, "Do you know what that would mean? Means I would have to put my trust in you. A person is the most vulnerable when they sleep."

"I'm not going to do anything. I helped you."

"And I would be a fool to have total faith in that little spoken sentance."

It was getting rediculous. Suddenly, I was starting to wish he'd leave.

"Fine!" I said. "Then go! I don't give a damn!"

His eyes shifted away from me quickly. It looked like I struck a chord or something, "You go to sleep first."

Right, so he intended to stay now. I wasn't particularly tired, but I could sleep... So, without saying anything to him, I stood and turned the television off before turning on a dim, blue-lighted lamp and flicking the rest of the lights off. I returned and stepped right over him, onto the other side of the matress where I huddled myself in the corner, as far away from him as I could get, and pulled the blankets up. My back was towards him.

I didn't hear another thing out of him but the rustle of clothes and the blanket as I closed my eyes and drifted away. I expected not to find him there again when I woke up.

------

FROM THE P.O.V. OF JONATHAN CRANE

Something like this had never happened before. There is no good reason anyone should help me, unless they wanted something from me, and even then, they were never this polite. I had seen her first at the door of the police vehicle, not looking scared, but rather focused. She took me to her apartment, which was tiny and as messy as a pig's pen. Clothes and paper covered the floor, the paper of which was drawn or written on. The walls were plastered with large works of art, originals, and sitting on a eisle in the corner by the window was what looked to be the latest piece. They were all figural portraits, men and women twisted into dynamic positions, all stylized with minimal color. The color was always bold, though. She seemed to like the color blue and the cooler tones. There was a sewing machine in the near left corner, sitting on what looked to be a school desk, possibly stolen. Beyond that was a poor excuse for a kitchen. A matress sat sadly in the only corner left, off-white material peaking through a single blanket tossed sloppily around. Two pillows were stacked on top of each other with an imprint on the top of where a head rested. She assisted me to that matress, and I idly kicked the blanket out of the way before just flopping down.

She was beautiful, in an unkempt, exotic sort of way. Her hair was only a few inches past shoulder-length, dyed some strange unnatural red-violet. It looked good, contrasting the porcelain and pale features of her face which possessed a big black paint smear along her jaw. Dark eyebrows gave the impression of a strong woman, but she couldn't be older than twenty-five, still young. Her eyes were grey-blue, but the blue was very faint. They reminded me of an ocean in the middle of a violent storm. Her body was fit enough. No real tone, but she couldn't be classified as neither fat nor skinny. Firm... I think... would be the best way to describe. She was wearing a black t-shirt that hugged her curves but showed no unessecary skin and faded blue jeans. Her name was Lorna, she said.

Who does this? This kind of thing? It's insane. If a person kills people, it is usually common sense to stay away from that person. This girl, obviously, lacked common sense. It was lucky for me, but not so much her.

The matress was not a bed, but it was much softer than the beds at Arkham, and with the addition of another body beside me, warmer. I was confident enough to fall asleep after her, and I remember thinking as I fell asleep about the lamp she had turned on which was dimly illuminating everything in a calm, blue light. It occured to me that my friend Lorna here was afraid of the dark, or at the very least, unnerved by it. It intruiges me how long a childhood fear can follow a person. Perhaps she never had the courage to face it. It is such a simple, silly fear. Maybe something happened to her in the dark once.

I was already exhausted, so I fell asleep quickly, remaining in hibernation as the hours passed... The sun rose and fell, and once again, night was upon us all...


	2. Thumbtacks

AUTHORS NOTES: This is the comic version of Scarecrow, not the movie. The movie stunk. Jonathan Crane is a wimpy-lookin' red-head with poor eyesight and gets off to reading Nietzche.

Do not assume you know where this is going. Seriously.

I don't own anything but Lorna and maybe Lester there, blah blah blah. DC. The end.  
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FROM THE P.O.V. OF LESTER CRUMP

Some kids grow up in gangs, like me. Things just kind of escalated, and when I already crossed the point of no return in the world of crime, I joined the big leagues as one of Two-Face's posse. It ain't the best job, but it gives ya street cred and some cash, plus a cool outfit. We don't really have to do anything, just stand there and look tough, but sometimes things happen. Like Batman, for example. Yeah, I've had a few run-ins with tha bat. I'd like to give myself credit for gettin' the heck outta there before he gets to me. We can't stop 'im. We just ain't that experienced. We're expendable, hired for the grunt work. The boss took a bit of an interest in me. Said I was smarter than the others. So, he gave me a better job: private security. That means I go where he goes n' alla dat.

It had been a quiet day. It was in the evening now, and nuthin' big had happened yet. The boss was doin' a few small jobs on the side, but nuthin' big. Not yet. Not until HE came. The wimpy-lookin' guy with a stupid hat an' straw comin' outta everywhere. I told him he wasn't allowed to see the boss. He gave me dis frown and looked like he was about ta try somethin' when the boss called 'im in over my shoulder.

The little guy waltz past me, "You're boys are a little fridgid, Harvey. Maybe I should help them to lighten up."

The boss actually stood up for the guy, straightening his tie all neat-like, and he said, "You'll have to excuse them. I haven't told anyone about our plans yet." Then he pulled out a flippin' gun and aimed it right at me! That's the problem with workin' for a guy with a split personality. But he didn't fire. Nope. He took out that god damned coin and gave it a flip. Lucky for me, it landed right-side up and he put the gun away, telling me how greateful I should be for my life. Tch. I was jus' doin' my job.

Apparently this was the Scarecrow guy that pops up in the news from time to time. Another big baddie. He an the boss seemed to have reached an agreement about doin' a job togetha, and we, 'da boys', were about to get told. It was gonna be a big jewelry heist. Gotham's a big city so it's gotta have a lotta things to attract tha tourists. Famouse things always gatta stop here, like pop stars, the Oscar Mayer Weiner-mobile, and precious jewelry exibits. They always risk gettin' tha expensive stuff stolen 'cause this city's got a lotta smart wackos who can totally make off with tha exibit. Like what we were gonna do.

Scarecrow said right now was just a check-up. Said way later tonight would be the time we make our move. Things were in order. Whateva'. I knew I was gonna be there, probly gonna hafta fight the bat. This always happens, the cycle, and when I'm done for, Two-Face'll hire a new personal guard. Like I care. My life was pissed away when I dropped outta' tha' aigth grade.

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FROM THE P.O.V. OF LORNA MILES

Near the end of my sleep, I felt the place beside me become unoccupied, but because I wasn't paying attention, I didn't care. I woke up in a very interesting situation the next night to the smell of warm food. The scent of bacon was very strong. I tossed onto my side, sliding an arm beneath the single pillow which lay beneath my head, and opened my eyes to Scarecrow standing at my stove, flipping pancakes in full costume. I couldn't help but laugh. I wish I had a camera.

When he heard me chuckle, he glanced over his shoulder at me, the straw like hair moving over his boney shoulders. He gave the pancake another flip without looking, "Good... well, night."

"You seem happy," I told him when I tossed off the blanket and joined him at his side.

"Not in particular," he re-focused on what his hands were doing.

I turned around and hopped up onto the counter somewhere to the side, dishing a clean plate out of the cabinet, "Those for me too, or do I have to make my own?" I didn't know I have pancake batter, and if I did, I wondered when the expiration date was.

"You too," he replied. I dished out another plate then.

When he was finished, he split the feast. I began to just eat it where I was, but stopped when he glared at me and motioned for me to sit at the table.

"Don't eat like a monkey," he said, plopping down in one of the crappy little wooden chairs. He was so tall and looked so out of place. I wondered if he had always seemed so unusual, and then found myself pondering about who he really was. What made him into who he was? He seemed nice enough ...now.

Scarecrow took off his hat and pulled off his mask, setting them down beside his plate in order to eat, and ran a hand back through his mane of mussed, short red hair. Some straw fell onto the ground. He apologized for the mess.

"I noticed you have a sewing machine," he commented mid-course.

I looked up to him with a mouthful of food and nodded, then swallowed, "Yeah. You wanna use it?"

"Yes. I don't know if you've realized, but costumes and masks are a large part of what I do."

"I think I'd have to be blind not to ...Jonathan." I didn't know what to call him. Me calling him 'Scarecrow' sounded kind of silly, but he didn't stop me or correct me when I said his first name. It was a well-known name, after all. Wasn't like I had to dig it up.

"Yes, or stupid."

"Which I'm not," I said quickly.

"Don't you think that's rather arrogant of you to say?" he put down his fork and leaned back in the chair, looking at me. He looked harmless enough. "How can you, yourself, say if you are stupid or not? To whom are you comparing yourself? To me?" He placed a long, skinny gloved hand on his chest flamboyantly.

I just stared at him, hunched over my plate and slowing the pace of my chewing. Was he serious?

"I'm just playing with you," he blinked.

An awkward moment drifted in as if it had come right through the front door and sat down right there on the table between us.

Jonathan looked back down and started quietly eating again, which made me feel kind of sorry that I hadn't smiled or laughed or something.

"So," I said after a moment, trying to shake off the awkwardness. "What do you need, material-wise?"

"I was thinking about making alterations to a straight-jacket, or constructing a shirt in a similar style. Maybe some... patches... here and there," Jonathan finished off his plate, as did I a moment or two after.

"I always liked your outfits," I told him, standing from my seat. I moved towards him to collect his plate with mine and took them to the sink.

"Really?" he folded his arms, still sitting in the chair.

"Yeah, but I think you could do so much more. I think you sometimes limit yourself," I called back as I turned on the water and washed both plates.

"Well, I can only do so much without proper supplies. Money. Although... I suppose money isn't such an issue anymore..."

"I always thought you'd look good in a cape. Give Batman a run for his money," when I returned, I leaned on the wall behind him, and he stood to turn and look at me.

"No, no. Capes only get in the way. They also give the enemy something to grab you by."

"Ok then," I carefully moved around him, daring to reach out and pick up the hat on the table, moving up towards the terrifying nerd of a professional criminal to place it on his head, pulling it down past his eyes until it hit the bridge of his nose just above the dorky glasses, "No cape."

He smiled, blinded by the base of the cone-shaped hat, which made him look goofy.

"Besides..." his said cooly, gripping the brim of the hat to pull it up. His eyes were glued right on me as soon as he could see again. "I'm trying to scare people, not remind them of their guardian angel."

He asked if we could get the costume done and completed within the span of just a few hours. I went out right away to get the material and supples. The next half of the night was spent attempting to throw together a descent-looking outfit. While I used the machine to make the shirt, he was hand-stitching the mask. While he made the pants, I fitted him for alterations on his hat. Hardley a word was spoken, but we got it all done, and when he came back from the bathroom from changing, he thanked me briefly before starting for the door.

I didn't see him again for the rest of the night, but I remember... hearing sirens... and watching the news.  
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FROM THE P.O.V OF JONATHAN CRANE

It was one of those humid, hot nights when the first step outside feels like a wave of warmth crashing against you. I was dressed to impress, though I must admit that the new alterations were a little more than usual. Lorna may have gotten a little carried away, but the overall effect was a good one. People feared me already, and the costume suggested I had just escaped from Arkham - with style! Still, nowhere as queer as the Riddler. Honestly, I don't know why some people wear spandex if it only makes them look worse. Superman had the right to wear spandex. Bane. Not the Riddler or myself. Me in spandex... would terrify even the strongest of men... On second thought, perhaps I should give it another chance.

I met with Two-Face at the museum. To my exasperation, we had actually... God... done a coin flip for whether we would sneak in quietly or just smash the place up and trip all the alarms. The coin landed scarred-side up, so it would most likely get messy. Oh well. The priceless jewels were not my target anyway. I'd be in and out before even Batman arrived...

The first wave of thugs went in front of us, Dent and me, smashing the doors open like a frenzy of flopping fish, terribly disorganized and loud. I could have done this so much more professionally by myself...

The alarms were silent alarms, so the only ruckus was that caused by the brutes, trouncing all over everything. They reminded me of a plague of locusts, destroying everything in their path.

"Come now. Was smashing that vase really nessecary?" I sighed, folding my arms as I looked on the shattered remains of a work of art thousands of years old.

I didn't have to do anything. The plan WAS for me not to do anything until it was time to escape. I made my way casually down the hall and stopped for a brief moment to examine a painting. The jewels were reached in time, and I could practically see Two-Face drooling over them. I opened a burlap sack which he carelessly shoved billions of dollars worth of shiney rocks into, and I told him I had to take care of one thing before we left, so go ahead and go play like the big, disfigured kid and a candyshop that he was. I, personally, never saw much need for money... Especially if you were too infamouse to spend it. I suppose it's more the idea of riches that fuels such actions.  
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FROM THE P.O.V. OF LESTER CRUMP

I accidentally knocked over some shitty vase and Scarecrow got mad at me. I'm just happy that pansy ain't my boss. My boss is way hardcore. He was right there with us, smashing things until they lost their shape. I was in the middle of teasing Frankie by makin' him wear this diamond tiara and shooting his feet so he'd dance when we heard the crash of a window, and Frankie went down, blotted out by a big black shadow which rose like the Devil rising from Hell, a pair of nasty white eyes staring at me. I turned to run, but my feet weren't takin' me anywhere. The collar of my jacket was bein' gripped and held back by the bat. Motherfin' pointy ears n' all. He sent me flyin' into the air. It was just plain luck that I got stuck up on a light that was stickin' out of the wall. I couldn't go no where or do nuthin, but I was outta tha fight, which was fine by me. I like my face it's natural tan color instead of black n' blue.

From this kinda' height, I could see everything. The bat was totally wailin' on everybody. The big boss man was the only one to square the freak off in a one-on one, but he was taken down pretty quickly as soon as he ran outta bullets. They said some things I couldn't make out. Eh, I could make out some...

The boss was laughin', and I knew why. The bat didn't know about that Scarecrow dude. Yeah, he'll show up and squash the freak flat. Take 'im by surprise. Now was da perfect time. ...But he never came.

"Scarecrow!" the boss was screamin'. Boy, was he madder than I ever seen him! "SCARECROW! CRAAAAAANNNNEEEE! YOU PIECE OF S !"

We were all hauled off when the cops came. Two-Face went in a different truck, but me an' the boys had to cram like sardines in this one little van. And that's da end of me. Unless I get released early for good behavior.  
-----

FROM THE P.O.V. OF LORNA MILES

It was six in the morning before he came back. By then, I was watching the Gotham Morning News. The top story was a museum robbery that had occured overnight. Batman had "foiled Two-Face once again" and the day - night - was saved. Like always. They said not everything was held accountable for, though. They mentioned Scarecrow, how Two-Face had been screaming his name, telling the police about how they were supposed to be pulling the job together, but there was no trace of him. Not even a single piece of straw.

He opened my door quietly and slipped in, but when he saw I was awake and watching him, he shut it behind him with less caution. In his right hand was a small burlap sack with something in it - oh, I could guess - and on his back was a long tube which was tied over his shoulders by thick leather straps. I recognized it as a container for art.

"You didn't." I stared at him wide-eyed from my spot on the edge of the bed.

"I did," he replied indifferently, striding in towards me with an egotystical bounce in his step.

"Did anyone see you--"

"Come here? No. I made absolutely sure. It was a clean get-away." He crouched down until he was able to sit next to me.

"The news keeps saying Two-Face is spilling all the beans on you. He's pissed," I brought my knees to my chest and hugged them.

"Oh, I don't care if he sts bricks. I'll be left alone for quite a while longer." He sounded so sure. I didn't understand why. It was as if this wasn't a big deal at all to him, like a cake-walk! Meanwhile, I was almost freaking out! "I brought you a souvenier," he said, first taking off his hat and setting it aside. He then placed the bag down and proceeded to take off the tube from his back. I knew it was some piece of art, but I didn't know what it was yet, that is, until I opened it...

It was an original Picasso. I could see the way the light flowed along the mountains of texture and catch on the edges where the piece had been cut right out of its canvas frame. My jaw dropped and my eyes damn near popped out of their sockets, "I can't keep this!"

"What? Why not?"

"It's an original Picasso! Stolen right from the museum!" I couldn't even believe I was holding it. I could get my dirty, oily hands on it! OH DOOM! DOOOOOOOM!

"It's worth a lot of money," he said, nudging me in the side gently as if he were trying to sell it.

"I don't care about money!" and I began to roll it back up with the utmost care.

Jonathan snatched it away from me, nearly making a wrinkle. I cringed. "Fine," he said. "Then I'll keep it. And I'll hang it..." he stood and sauntered to the wall where the largest blank spot was, "right here until I leave." He took some thumbtacks from the desk and punctured the corners of the painting, sticking it to the wall. I made sounds like I was dieing.

"You...! YOU CAN'T PIN A PICASSO UP WITH THUMBTACKS!" I rubbed my face. This was too much.

"I just did," Jonathan looked back at me, placing his hands on his hips. He seemed to enjoy my squirming. "I bet some other art nuts sensed the pain of the painting just now and are writhing on the floor -- Yes! Just like that!" he pointed at me. True enough, I was writhing.  
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FROM THE P.O.V. OF JONATHAN CRANE

When I entered the threshold, the first thing I noticed was Lorna on the edge of the bed. She was wearing what looked to be nothing but a large shirt... and was mildly dissapointed that she was just wearing shorts that were concealed. Still...

Her reaction was even greater than I had hoped. It was wildly amusing to me. Not quite fear, but I could see signs of something similar, the way her face turned a sickly shade of green. It turned into a riot after she dropped to the floor in agony. Silly little girl.

I walked by her to pick up my hat. 'Until I leave'. I had already stayed with her in her home for much longer than I had planned, but, why leave now? I had a roof over my head for a while. Food. Plumbing. Light. Even television, though I wish she had a computer... Or any game system. I would like to play the new Silent Hill games when I have the chance, and wondered how far Halo had come since the last time I was put away.

The hat was placed on the top shelf in her closet by the door, and I then proceeded to take off the mask and set it down neatly beside it.

"Jonathan..." I heard her directly behind me, then felt her hand on my shoulder. I turned around for her and idly adjusted my glasses. She was looking at me in a strange way, something very foriegn to me. She told me 'thank you' and said she appreciated the though. The girl asked me if I would be leaving soon. I told her I didn't know...

Both of her hands slid over my shoulders. The feeling of such gentle contact was strange. I had seldomly ever been touched with such tenderness. I felt paralyzed. Heart pounding - the pulse was ringing in my ears. Fingertips brushed my neck, and she never took her eyes away. Her feet moved a few centimeters towards me. She purposely lost her balance on me, forcing me a ways down, to her height, where I felt the softness of lips for the first time in ...forever. It was such an odd sensation. Who would have ever thought that randomly meshing two squishy parts of people's bodies together could feel so good? Maybe it was because it was supposed to mean something.

I returned the kiss on instinct, a little clumsily at first, but I was always a quick learner, and found my ground soon enough. A moan. Her's. I felt my back hit the wall and I lost my footing, mind too occupied - apparently - to keep my balance. We both fell, her on my lap, looking up at me who sat and looked back at her. She was between my legs, her arms hovering beside either side of my hips where her hands held her up against the floor, stomach towards the ground. She looked just as confused as I.

I rose an eyebrow at this interesting turn of events while she boldly rose up from between my legs, that look of confusion melting away into something else. That other look, the one I couldn't pin-point. Arms fell around my neck once more, touching lips. She was teasing me. It's always a bad idea to tease the deprived.

The tables turned when I gripped the material of her shirt which lay just against the lower curve of her back. With my hand balled into a fist, I pressed her in towards me until I could feel the curves of what lies beneath that clothing. She was gracious enough to permit me another moan...

When we edged our way back towards the sad matress in the corner, morning light was beginning to stream through the blinds of her window. She rested beneath me, dining on my lips as I did her's, bodies slowly rolling to the motions of instinct. Was I lucky? I wasn't the most handsome of men. No, I was content, and I felt myself growing a little more fond of the silly little art girl.

Interesting turn of events indeed... 


	3. Stars

AUTHORS NOTES: This is the comic version of Scarecrow, not the movie. The movie stunk. Jonathan Crane is a wimpy-lookin' red-head with poor eyesight and gets off to reading Nietzche.

Do not assume you know where this is going. Seriously.

I don't own anything but Lorna and Richard, blah blah blah. DC. The end.

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FROM THE P.O.V. OF JONATHAN CRANE

I had remained awake long after she had fallen asleep, an arm loosly draped over my side as if afraid I would walk away. Meanwhile, I thought and traced my fingers through her hair. She looked young enough to be my daughter... She slept with her mouth closed and made no noise. Her body didn't move, save for the faint rise and fall of her chest with every shallow breath. I drifted in and out of sleep, but never stayed asleep, waking up at least every hour to watch her breathe again. I found myself reluctant to even move for my own comfort for concern of disturbing her sleep.

"...Hi," she said finally after hours. It was well into the afternoon. She opened her eyes slowly and raised them to meet mine.

"Good evening," I replied.

"You didn't leave."

"Ooooh!" my voice was dripping with sarcasm, "How OBSERVANT you are!"

This provoked an amusing reply consisting of a combination of a frown and a disgruntled remark that went something along the lines of, "Asshole."

She was the first to move. I had been laying in one spot for so long, aware, that my body wasn't responding to my commands to lift itself. I was content to lay and watch her anyway, naked, striding confidently to the kitchen to get herself a soda from the fridge. She had a tattoo along her side of a red oriental serpent weaved into thick, black tribal marks which accented her curves.

I chuckled, turning on my back and resting my arms crossed beneath my head above the pillow. Why? It felt like the thing to do. The situation amused me.

It was lieing on the matress alone that I remembered I still had a few jobs to do, one of which I had to take care of early tonight, within a few hours... I willed my body to move some more, wrapping the blanket around most of myself, not quite confident enough with my physical features to walk around in my birthday suit like her, and started attempting to scoop my costume from the ground. When I had my things in my arms, I looked up to find her, arms folded, leaning against the wall outside of the kitchen, just watching me, giving me that look again...

"No..." I warned, raising my eyebrows at her. "I have to go take care of some things right now."

"Off to go steal some Monets, some Rembrants, so you can bring 'em back and put holes in 'em?" she walked with the prowess of a feline towards me and turned just before we met, side-stepped to the closet, and took my hat and mask down.

She kept distracting me as I dressed. I should have never allowed her to know I found her attractive... Good Lord...

About half of an hour later, I was on my way... I know somewhere, someone wonders how we, the arch-criminals, got around the city so quickly. On foot would be the first assumption, but if you actually put effort into thought, that would be very unreasonable. What then? Public transportation? Take a bus? It wasn't as if I could go rent a car. I could steal one, maybe, that that was way too much effort than what it was. If I was to steal something, I would make sure I could use it, over and over when it comes to transportation. So how did I get there...? Why, horseback! Of course!

He was a great big Quarter Horse with a pelt of dark chocolate and a trim, black mane. I had 'Shanghi'd' him on a whim - I had started my trek ...on foot (with the intentions of fixing that, I assure you). Standing a specific way in the middle of a field, I don't look all that suspicious, and I had become very good at darting around in the shadows due to my years in the mansion as a youth. As he trotted by, it was only a matter of grabbing him by the mane and springing up. I didn't have the time to find a saddle, not did I care too much. The gate was already opened and the beast was without objection as I forced him faster and faster away from his pen until the residential area died away into a concrete jungle we call Gotham City. I made my way into the very heart, galloping past shrieking old ladies and fleeing families, hurdling trash cans and even baby carriages. It was a good horse.

At last, I finally arrived at my destination, slowing down to a simple walking pace as I approached the great guarded wall of the Arkham Asylum...

-----------

FROM THE P.O.V. OF DOCTOR RICHARD MARSHALL

He said he'd be here tonight. I was sweating an alarming amount seeing as how the room's temperature was chilled and the overhead fan was on. I hadn't known he had planned to make such a big scene, let alone drag Harvey Dent into it. I suppose that's what you get for not asking the specifics, though if I had asked, I doubt I would have been told. I had a nervous feeling as if I were dealing with the Devil Himself.

"Helloooo, Dick!" came the shrill ring of a voice tucked in the corner of my office, the source of which was a tall, heavily shadowed maniac with a pointy hat. He was grinning at me.

"OH MY GOD!" I exclaimed, for I had not seen him enter, nor slip into the corner like he had done, and I had been sitting in my chair for hours, until now when I fell from the seat in surprise. "...Crane," I said, sounding displeased as I rose up with the help from the desk.

"...Did I scare you...?" he asked innocently, taking a step out of the coner where I could see him better. He had this glint in his eye that told me about the pleasure he took from the sweat on my brow and the unease of my breath.

I sneered back at him and slowly took my seat again, "Cut the crap. You have them? With you?"

"Of course..." his grin transformed into a smug smile as he dispenced a burlap bag onto my desk.

I took the bag cautiously, as if it were going to bite me, and pulled it open the peer inside. The jewel seemed to generate a light of their own, shimmering like stars in the darkness. They mezmorized me, as I'm sure they would any man, but it wasn't just the wealth they offered. It was the idea. These jewels would provide Arkham the funding necessary to build a better security system. Everyone knows the government doesn't give us enough. That's why this place is the revolving door it is for criminals. But with this? No more of that. We will have the cutting edge.

"Thank you..." I told him with the senserity of a giftcard, rasing my eyes to look on the mangled form of a man with a few issues.

"No, Doctor..." his lips divided in the cut for a mouth in the mask to grin at me again wickedly. He moved around me towards the door and opened it without even checking for clearance. "...Thank you..." and the door shut, the sound echoing through the room and fading until the only noises were the blades of the spinning fan, and my breath...

I leaned back in my chair and gave a great sigh.

"I saw Crane outside," said a sharp, female voice from my door. Dr. Patricia Wiley was peeking her head in. I saw her eyes drop to the sack on my desk. "...Is that--"

"Yes," I nodded. She gave me a thumbs up and a weak smile before disappearing again.

I guess... if you deal with the minds of criminals for long enough... it starts to rub off on you...

-----------

FROM THE P.O.V. OF BRUCE WAYNE

It would be like Crane to abandon a partner for his own sake, but I can't be arrogant and assume Harvey was making sense when he was screaming 'Scarecrow'. I remember Crane being securely locked away last time I heard anything out of him, and it would be odd if the papers didn't say anything about an escape to warn the public. I would have heard... something...

It took hacking into Arkham's files to get the answer I was looking for. It turns out that Jonathan Crane had been released with a clean bill of health. That was entirely wrong and anyone who read the file knew it. No wonder there was no mention of him in the media. They wanted to keep it a secret. Why?

The possibility hit me that, if Crane was at the jewelry heist, and he did make off with the loot, that he was working for... Arkham itself. Talk about your odd couple. Somehow, I just didn't see that working out. Crane would need more incentive to work for them, and on the side of Arkham, why would they enlist the services of a known maniac? A criminal? A killer. Is the world really that corrupt? Are there no more good men left?

It's only a hunch for now. I need more. Evidence. I'll start with getting to the bottom of why they let Crane out in the first place... 


End file.
